Tylywoch ~ 20

 Tylywoch ~ 20  Elementals 1 

By Len Morgan

   Wilden cast his mind back thirty years when the seekers arrived in his village for tribute of cattle and initiates.   They chose indiscriminately, taking one in five children aged thirteen.   He was torn away from his loving family who assured him it was a great honour to be chosen, but he did not want to go.   He smiled with hindsight, as he recalled the tears.   But, his wants were of little moment to Bedelacq the one true god.   He became part of a herd of 30 young men driven, from town to town, like cattle.   The herd increased at every stop.   At night they were haltered, and by day forced to run non-stop, behind the cattle and horses.  The young women were treated differently; they were placed in three enormous box wagons following the procession.   At evening, food and water were placed beneath the canvas flaps, at either side of the wagons, in the morning the flaps were opened and the food was gone.   He recalled envying those well-fed and pampered prospective ‘brides of Bedelacq’.   Whilst they, and the cattle, would at best become slaves to his brides.   They survived, at far below subsistence level, they grew lean and mean on gruel supplemented with anything they could find, catch, or steal.   They took from those weaker than themselves, and those who failed to survive were decapitated and bled into large bronze receptacles and stripped of their flesh.   The survivors ate well on such occasions and never questioned the source of their good fortune.   The charred bones were plainly evident in the smouldering ashes of the campfires at dawn.   They headed steadily north, towards the mountains, he noted, after months of travelling, they no longer added to their complement, from the towns they passed.   New additions would have been eaten alive by the ravenous, wild-eyed, pack of wolf children, who had replaced the docile innocents of a few months earlier.   They had been systematically stripped of all dignity, compassion, and humanity.  

Now gaunt and hungry, they were prepared to fight to the death without provocation.   Even the Seekers became wary of them, attaching restraints at night and going around in pairs.   When the Priest Leader judged them to be ready; their numbers reduced from fifty to twenty; they could be herded to Blutt Central.   To him, they were merely the survivors. The raw material or distillate, the elemental substance that might produce half a dozen acolytes, of whom, one in a hundred might become a priest.   The remainder would simply be fuel expended on the gods work. 

The young females, as he now knew fared no better.   Through out their conversion, and transformation into ‘brides of Bedelacq – the one god’ they would have been aware of how the boys were treated and been envious.   The distillation of twenty females to just four had been both slow and painful.   The survivors considered themselves to be the unlucky ones. 

He recalled being herded into a corral with seven other acolytes, cold, naked, dirty, ravaged with hunger and thirst.

On either side young women either viewed them dispassionately or jeered derisively.   A group of young women approached them fastening collars around their necks, leaving them on display for public inspection.

Wilden toyed unconsciously with the thin leather thong around his throat, symbolic of the thick studded collar he’d received that day.

He remembered the young woman approaching him and attaching her leash to his collar. 

“Down!” she’d commanded, jerking sharply on the leash, bringing him involuntarily to his knees.   “Good Boy,” she said without emotion, patting him on the head like a hound, and placing a chunk of raw meat into his mouth.   “Eat!” she commanded.   He recalled the taste; it was the most delicious food he’d eaten since home; a distant memory.   She handed him a carafe of liquid, “Drink!”   He obeyed; it had a slightly saline taste, and faint yellowish tinge, but was far better than the earthy ditch water he’d been forced to drink in order to survive the journey.   There was something added to the water, something with an addictive quality, because to this day he still required a little of that liquid on a regular basis, always from the hands of that same young woman.   He smiled once again, recalling her long serious face, those large sienna eyes with dark dilated pupils.  Forceful, piercing and unblinking, those eyes gazed at him and through him without fear or pity.   He recalled a cool wayward breeze ruffling her long straight black shoulder length hair, and wondered how it dared to do so.   He gazed in wonder at those moist dark pink lips, slightly parted, revealing strong white teeth.   She stood motionless before him as if inviting his worship.   He was acutely aware of her scent, the sweet smell of her breath and skin.   He lowered his gaze in shame, to her dainty delicate feet, defiled by dust from the compacted earth floor of the compound. 

“Clean them!” she commanded as if reading his mind.

He knelt before her.   She raised her left foot to the level of his face.   He brushed it rhythmically with his hands then poured water from the carafe massaging it gently. Finally, he dried it on his now long brown hair, wiping her sole on his thigh.   She raised her other foot and he repeated his act of obeisance.  

“They are still dirty,” she said in slow metronomic syllables, “clean them!”  

He lowered his head licking and wiping them until finally, she appeared satisfied. 

“Come!” she commanded jerking simultaneously on the leash, bringing him to his feet.   She stood head and shoulders above him; tall slim and sinuous.   Where she walked he followed, she never cast a backward glance, so supremely confident was she of her control over him.  Some smiled as she passed; had she but glanced back she would have known the true measure of her power over him.   He prayed she wouldn’t look, as he fought to control his wayward member…  His prayer was answered.    

Throughout that first meeting, he was conscious of a voice within his head.  Calmly Reassuring, soothing him, counselling him to obey her; so that no harm would befall him.

She led him, through a maze of corridors, to a door one amongst many.  

She made unfamiliar hand gestures before the door causing it to open.   

“I am third hand maid to Mawgwrr the Premier Bride,” she announced proudly.   “You are my slave, and will call me mistress…”

“What is your name mistress?” he asked.

She was not fazed and didn’t raise her voice at his great impudence.   “My name is mistress Glamhorten.   I will overlook you speaking to me without being asked because I have not yet instructed you in mistress-slave etiquette.   You are allowed to speak only when asked.   Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he replied at once.

She carefully selected a thin whippy cane from a sheaf of similar implements standing upright in a tall wicker bin beside the door.  

“When not engaged in an activity at my request, you will kneel, head bowed before me or beside me as directed,” she said in a calm quiet voice.   “The answer I required was YES MISTRESS!!” she spoke sharply for emphasis, punctuating the syllables with vicious blows to his back.  

He winced as the full sting of those powerful biting blows exploded in his mind, milliseconds later.  

‘Be still, do not react, be grateful for this lesson in behaviour,’ said the voice within him. 

“Yes, Mistress.” He said in a servile voice, through streaming eyes, before she could follow up with further blows.

She took a hank of his hair and slowly wiped the cane on it, before replacing it in the wicker bin.   She straddled a back-less chair and clapped her hands twice in rapid succession.  A lean, naked young male appeared, prostrating himself before her, kissing her feet, prior to kneeling by her side.

She patted him on the head without a glance, “My Slave!” she said

“Until death mistress,” he answered, completing the ritual.

“This is your replacement,” she told him dispassionately.   “Teach him his duties well, if he fails it will be your fault, you will receive the punishment, not he!”

“You sleep there!” she said to Wilden, pointing to a narrow flat wicker basket covered by a thin grey threadbare blanket.   “Sleep on your belly until the blood dries, I do not want my blanket soiled.  

“You! With me!” she commanded the older boy, “I have need of your serpentine tongue…”

(To be continued)

 

Copyright Len Morgan